


Rock Star

by autiotalo (orphan_account)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/autiotalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Till overhears things on the tour bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock Star

Of all the places we've been to, this is one of the strangest. A park – or is it an arboretum? – littered with red plastic chairs and tables dominated by glaring Coca-Cola logos. I half-expect a white van selling chips and burgers to be parked nearby. Perhaps it's hiding behind the trees. A gaggle of fans waits patiently somewhere up ahead. The anticipation in our mini-bus is palpable.

Richard is sitting beside me, already on his fourth smoke of the journey. He's forgotten to paint his nails and is continually worrying at the tips with the edge of his teeth. When he's not biting his nails, he's smoking; and vice versa. He fiddles with the ashtray in the seat ahead of us, and succeeds in tipping ash over his jeans.

"Fuck," he says succinctly.

"Dozy bastard," I respond, but indulgently.

Behind us, Olli is reading a newspaper. At the start of our trip, he read out choice headlines. When it became obvious that nobody was interested, he gave up. For the past fifteen minutes, he's been doing the crossword. Flake, sitting across the aisle, shuffled over in his seat to offer advice; and so for fifteen minutes, Flake has been telling Olli the answers. Trouble is, Olli wants to do the crossword for himself. I foresee trouble ahead.

Right at the back, like a pair of naughty schoolboys, sit Paul and Schneider. I long for the cavernous space of the tour-bus. At least there I can escape from Paul's hyperactive chatter. He acts like he's four years old. Schneider isn't much better. They whoop at pretty girls and old grannies, try to claim every expensive car they see, squabble over a packet of sweets that Richard eventually takes away from them, and insist on singing along tunelessly to the radio - even when the DJ is speaking.

I slouch in my seat and stuff my hands in my pockets and count the minutes until this will be over. I have a headache nagging behind my eyes. My spine jars painfully as the mini-bus bumps into the park, and then Emu announces, somewhat unnecessarily, that we've arrived.

"Thank God," mutters Olli, rolling up the newspaper and heading outside as fast as possible, followed by Flake who's still bleating about 12 down. Richard and I exchange glances, and he raises an eyebrow.

"You okay?"

"Headache," I mumble. "I'll sit here for a bit."

He bites his lip, then touches my thigh, solicitous. "Take your time."

I nod and settle back into my seat. Of course, in my quest for peace and quiet I'd failed to take into account the idiots at the back of the bus, who are now scuffling around for no apparent reason. Paul's giggling. I sigh infinitesimally and sink even lower into the seat, listening half-heartedly to their inane cooing.

"You've gone blond again. I prefer you dark."

"At least I have hair."

"Ooh. Ooh. That hurts, Schneider, that really, really hurts -"

There's the sound of a zip purring downwards. I tilt my head and listen more closely. What the hell are they doing? I hear Paul snort with laughter, and Schneider, hurt in his tone, says, "Hey!"

"That t-shirt, man. It's so gay." Then comes the sound of leather creaking slightly, and I remember that Schneider was wearing a leather jacket when he got on the bus. Paul's laughter is genuine as he continues to poke fun at Schneider's taste in clothes. "Only a girl would wear something like that, Chrissy."

"Don't call me that."

"ChrissyChrissyChrissy!"

There's a thump and a yelp, and then a soft silence, broken by the occasional sound of kisses. If I listen very carefully, I can hear Paul's hands travelling across the snug cotton of the t-shirt; and then I can definitely hear his whispered comments. Annoyingly, they speak the flat, rapid Berlinerisch slang that, in part, still escapes me; but I can understand well enough that Paul is praising the delights of his lover's body hidden beneath the fabric.

"You still hate this t-shirt?" Schneider asks eventually.

"It's growing on me."

"Talking of growing… You wore that shirt before."

"Nice to know that you remember my wardrobe so intimately."

"Your wardrobe? Paul, most of your clothes are in a heap on my bedroom floor, where they seem to migrate anywhere but the washing-machine."

"But I thought you liked this shirt."

"I do. Please tell me you washed it since April, though."

"Of course I did. What do you take me for?"

Schneider lowers his voice. "A dirty little boy."

Oh, God. I roll my eyes and cringe inwardly. I really don't want to hear anymore of this, but of course I don't actually move from my seat.

"I suppose that," and I know Paul must be tapping the grey star on the front of Schneider's t-shirt, "must indicate that you're a star, hmm?"

"A rock star, baby," growls Schneider, and they giggle stupidly.

"Can I be your groupie, then? Can I, can I?"

"Let me take my shades off -"

"No – keep them on. It makes you look anonymous."

Schneider snuffles with laughter. "I thought you were supposed to be the anonymous one and I was the famous rock star?"

"Well, then, it makes you mysterious. A real bastard, since you won't even look me in the eye."

"Oh? You like bastards, huh?"

Paul's voice is getting deliberately breathy. "Depends what they do to me…"

More laughter. "You're my groupie, you're the one who has to put out."

"What d'you want me to do, then? Would you like me to suck you off?"

"Paul! What if Emu comes looking for us?"

"He'll find us," Paul says bluntly; and I admire his nerve. "You're a rock star, you're not scared of your manager, are you?"

"Well, no, but…"

Any further protest he was about to make is silenced when Paul kisses him again, and judging by the squirming from the back seat I'd guess that Schneider's jeans were being tampered with.

"Oh," says Paul naughtily, "you're a very… _big_ rock star."

I think I'm going to throw up.

"Quick, hurry," Schneider urges, showing that he, at least, is keeping the spirit of romance alive. There's more shuffling as Paul rearranges himself in Schneider's lap, and then the unmistakable wet sounds of an enthusiastic blowjob.

It's mildly arousing. It would be more so, if I didn't find it in equal measure amusing. I sternly tell my erection to quieten down. There are other things more worthy of its attention than listening to Paul sucking Schneider off. Instead I concentrate on what I can hear, distinguishing each little sound one from the other. You can learn a lot about a person through voyeurism, I find. Paul purrs his pleasure with his mouth full, something that surely accounts for Schneider's desperate gasps for breath and the frantic squishy clawing of the seats in front of him. I just about resist the temptation to spy on them when suddenly, Paul disentangles himself and gets to his feet, leaving Schneider at half-cock, or so to speak.

"Paul?" Schneider sounds bewildered. "Where are you – what…?"

Paul's already halfway down the aisle of the bus, but he turns back flirtatiously. "Well, Mr Rock Star, in case you hadn't noticed by now, us groupies just like to lead you on. You can call me if you want it to go further."

I wish I could see Schneider's face. He's outraged, and I hear the scrape of his boots as he jumps up. "Paul Landers, you – you… pricktease!"

"Oh, I know." Paul swaggers past and gives me a brilliant smile. "Hello, Till."

I stare at him, momentarily stunned by the knowledge that he knew I was there all along, and then I grin. Schneider is still spluttering in protest, and when I sling my arm over the back of the seat and turn to look at him, he's totally speechless.

"Hey, Mr Rock Star," I say helpfully, "your flies are undone."

Schneider glances southwards, turns crimson, and sits down again. "You're all bastards."

"I know," I say, echoing Paul; and then I leave him to it.


End file.
